Just past the porch light, standing like a painting in motion beneath the gentle hush of a streetlamp's glow.
June.
Wrapped in the arms of another man. It was intimate. Too intimate.
The bouquet in my hands suddenly felt foolish.
Like an apology whispered too late into an empty room.
Like offering flowers at a grave and pretending it might bring someone back.
I stepped out of the car, every breath burning like paper in my lungs, My heart rattling in my chest like a loose screw in a collapsing machine. I made it halfway up the sidewalk— A few more steps and I'd be in the light. A few more and I could've said her name.
But then—
"Don't take another step."
Her dad's voice. Low. Clear. Unshaking. It cut cleaner than any slap could have.
I stopped.
He stood on the porch. Shadows cut deep into the lines of his face. His arms were crossed, a trash bag dangling in one hand. Not even the mundane domesticity of that could soften him now.
"I just want to talk to her," I said, though my voice barely made it past my throat. It came out strangled, like even the words were ashamed of themselves.
"Talk?" he echoed, and the disbelief in his voice stung more than a shout. "Is that what you think she needs from you right now?"
"I—"
"Drop the damn flowers," he snapped, stepping forward like a wall of judgment. "This isn't a birthday you forgot. It's not an anniversary you're trying to make up for. This isn't that kind of wound."
I looked down at the bouquet in my hand. Sunflowers—bright, stupid, hopeful things. The stems shook with the breeze, petals shivering like they knew they didn't belong. Like they were embarrassed to be here, too.
I let them fall. They hit the concrete with a dull, wet sound, scattering yellow across the grey like spilled light. Pointless light.
"It's a life you destroyed, Aaron.Herlife. And you don't get to fix that with white ribbon and regret."
My breath stuttered. I looked past him, at her. She still hadn't moved. Still cradled in the arms of someone who wasn't me. Still trusting him with a part of herself I once thought belonged only to me. Her face was turned away. From me. From all of it.
And then he stepped into view. Her father. A man I used to laugh with. A man who once toasted my name like it belonged beside hers. Now he stood between us like a verdict.
"Turn around," he said, voice steady and final. "Whatever you came here to say, it's too late to say it tonight."
I swallowed, my throat dry with questions I had no right to ask.
"Is she..." I tried. My voice cracked. "Is she seeing someone?"
His eyes narrowed, dark and sharp.
"That's none of your business."
"But—"
"If she is," he said coldly, "at least she had the decency to wait until she wassingle."
I flinched. No scream could've done more damage. I wanted to sayI didn't sleep with Selene. I wanted to sayI loved her the whole time. But all that would've done was make it about me again.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it always had been. So I stood there, empty-handed, with nothing but the wind in my throat and the sound of silence filling the night. And then I went back to my hotel. I barely slept. Spent the night watching the ceiling, replaying every mistake I made like a film I couldn't pause.
